


Fists Within, Fists Without

by The_LupercalXVI



Category: Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: Anal Fisting, Brothers, Gay Sex, Hate Sex, Incest, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multiple Orgasms, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Primarchs, Smut, Taunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-20 16:41:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20678579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_LupercalXVI/pseuds/The_LupercalXVI
Summary: A moderately satisfying hate-sex writing.Perturabo is a master of all kinds of siege-destruction. Especially when it comes to Rogal Dorn.





	Fists Within, Fists Without

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moreagaara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moreagaara/gifts).

_I suppose I could be entertained that everything you own is piss-yellow, Rogal,_ Perturabo thought as he walked silently through the Imperial Fists’ barracks. He wasn’t sure what he detested more. Being surrounded by an army of wall-building siege-expert fakes, or the fact that he actually had to get assistance from the Yellow-Preening-Queen of Walls-Are-Superior.

The Iron Warriors were low on three metals they frequently used in their _real_ siegecraft. And being the Praetorian meant that Rogal Dorn, fool in charge of the army of pompous yellow jackets, had access to materials for building or weapons crafting that other groups had to work more to get. The title of Praetorian should’ve been given to someone _not_ Dorn. Perturabo would’ve been content if it had been given to anyone else. Fulgrim. Konrad. The damned Alpha Legion would’ve been more satisfying. But no, it belonged to Dorn, and that was how it would remain.

And so Perturabo continued stalking through the halls, refusing to meet any Fist’s gaze, and those that got in his way were shoved aside, regardless of rank. He spoke to no one. And his hand dented the door he knocked on to find a Captain or perhaps the Canary-Colored Primarch himself.

_Such an impressive door! I knock twice and leave knuckle prints,_ Perturabo thought. _Emperor help us should anyone attack Terra. They’ll land and the whole thing will collapse in on itself where it was, ah, fortified by the Imperial Fists and their glorious skills at building._

“Come in,” an irritated voice called. Pertuarbo’s lips twitched, threatening to smile. Rogal Dorn knew he was here. A lovely chance to insult the white-haired builder had just presented itself. Perturabo made no comments and walked in, taking care to shut the door gently.

“Did you get the message,” he stated. Asking would give Dorn power. That wasn’t acceptable. He had enough ego already. Taking it down a few notches was Pertuarbo’s self-imposed job. The Emperor wouldn’t give him anything better, after all.

“Yes, but I had questions, which is why I asked you to come speak in person. I could’ve met you elsewhere if our home irritates you so much,” Dorn replied.

“Are the materials accessible or not,” Perturabo again stated.

“Plasteel and Diamantine are being loaded to your ship as we speak. I…wanted to be certain you had requested Auramite and not Adamantium. And both would need to have forms filled out for you to receive in the requested amounts.”

Perturabo flexed his fingers, a tingling sensation running up his arm to where he had attached sensory enhancements. “I don’t make mistakes. Certainly not when it comes to ordering materials for the weapons that protect the Imperium.”

“The Emperor…will have to personally approve the Auramite transfer,” Dorn stated, his fists clenching slightly.

_I’ve annoyed you already, hmm?_ Perturabo thought, crossing his arms. “Well. Give me the forms.”

Dorn looked up at Perturabo from his desk with narrowed, dark brown eyes.

“I need permission from our Father to give you those forms. Therefore you will have to wait until he sends me that approval. If your next mission can be done without the Auramite, I suggest you go—”

Perturabo placed his arms on the desk firmly, his nose just several inches from Dorn’s. “You can’t entertain me for however long it takes the Emperor to send you an ‘okay, give your stern, obedient, albeit bitter brother what he needs to protect the Imperium and quit whining about it you ass-kissing little golden girl?’ Is it too hard for you to offer some form of hospitality? I’ve seen Orks with better manners.”

“If you are trying to get under my skin, Perturabo, you did that the moment you walked in. Now excuse yourself before you become a bigger asshole than you already are. At least shitting isn’t hard for you,” Dorn replied, teeth gritted.

“You’d know about assholes, wouldn’t you, Rogal? How often does yours get fisted a day? I’ve heard rumors but have yet to find it statistically possible unless you spend more time in the Warp than you report.”

And in one solid motion, Dorn’s armored fist caught Perturabo’s jaw and forced him to stagger backwards. His lip was busted, and he spat out part of a tooth before returning the blow to the center of Dorn’s face. They were now even, with Dorn’s nose trickling blood down his chin and his entire body shaking in rage. Neither spoke, both waiting for the other to make a wrong move. To blink at the wrong time. To inhale too sharply. To break the glare between them.

“You want hospitality, Perturabo. Then pretend to be moderately compassionate. I doubt you are actually capable, but if you want people to care for you, pretending you empathize goes a long way,” Dorn growled, too calm.

“I am capable of empathy, Dorn. I just don’t let it cloud my actions. If you can’t accept me the way I am, I wonder how you accept yourself and your sons.”

“I have never seen you empathize with anything other than a machine. Perhaps your Legion should be made of toasters. At least then you’d be productive.”

“You mock me because I can do anything the Mechanicus can do, but _better_? And because we don’t lose our manhood doing it?”

The room was quiet a few moments and a smirk crept onto Dorn’s face. Perturabo’s eyes narrowed more as his brother stood up and held up a finger. “I’d heard that you actually _did_ lose your manhood doing it, actually.”

Perturabo’s eyes widened briefly before he sneered. He turned to leave, unable to fight back without shooting Dorn in the face—or testicles—when the Praetorian’s arm caught his wrist.

“Is it true, then?”

“I am finished speaking to you, Rogal,” Perturabo hissed. The wires attached to his nervous system were sparking slightly as he tried to deny his anger.

“Was it a choice, or were you wounded and had to fix it?”

“I said I was finished speaking to you,” Perturabo answered, trying to pull his arm away. Except when he did, Dorn’s fingers caught the button that removed the gauntlet and it fell to the floor. Both of them stared at the piece of armor silently several moments. Then they looked at each other, faces blank before returning to the scowls they reserved for each other.

“I was wounded. I fixed it. That is all you need to know. That is more than you need to know,” Perturabo finally stated. He felt oddly calm. Of all the people to be discussing having to replace his penis with a mechanical version, Dorn wasn’t on list. Yet, of all the things Dorn did to infuriate Perturabo, such as breathing or existing, this didn’t strike a nerve.

“I hope you slaughtered whoever hurt you more creatively than Konrad would have,” Dorn replied.

“I have their body preserved in stasis and frequently use it as target practice. Or rather, what remains of their body. I shot the Eldar bitch’s head off before I realized I was bleeding,” Perturabo replied before noticing Dorn’s hand back on his wrist. It didn’t bother him that his brother was touching him. And that fact really bothered him. He didn’t like contact, and he hated Dorn. Combining the two should be sending sensory warnings of impending doom, and yet, Perturabo felt his body relaxing even more. Dorn’s face seemed to be slightly redder than usual and his ears bright red. Perturabo blinked once when he realized what was happening.

They weren’t just tolerating each other. They were _enjoying_ each other.

But how far would it go before they realized they really hated each other?

“…did you…make your. Ahem. Enhancement version. New version. Enhanced?”

Perturabo stared at Dorn and for a moment, he thought he could hear gears churning in his own head as he decided what to do. He felt his lips curve up into a smile—for most people, it would hint at amusement, but for Perturabo, it meant much, much more.

“Would you like to see it?” he said, voice dangerously warm. His smile grew when he saw Dorn’s eyes widen and the blush on his ears spread across his face.

“P-Perturabo, I wasn’t asking for a visu—”

“Shh, just look and be jealous,” Perturabo interjected as he began removing his armor. First the other gauntlet, setting it down next to the one on the floor, then the pieces of his helm that were attached to his actual body. It took several minutes to get the hat and breastplate detached from the wires, but Perturabo simply focused on the task at hand. Dorn had gone oddly quiet, his skin tone rivaling Magnus’s. Perturabo then removed his boots, taking care not to damage any of the armor as he stacked it. Then he took off his belt, then his pants, then stretched a little to adjust to being only in his bodysuit.

“I do hope your head doesn’t explode from embarrassment, Rogal. You act like you’ve never seen a penis before, mechanical or otherwise,” he taunted.

“I have! I’ve seen my own plenty! It’s the fact that I am about to see yours that embarrasses me!” Dorn sputtered.

“And why is that, hmm?” Perturabo asked as he began removing his body suit. The perk of having a mechanical member meant that he could control when it was erect, and if needed, could completely detach it and let his more natural self do nature’s work.

“Because it’s you!”

And in that moment, Perturabo did something he hadn’t done openly in years. He just smiled, no malice behind it. It was a strange feeling to lose control of his cheeks and lips. To just be pleasant. He mentally noted to rewire himself once this little game was done, but he also decided to embrace whatever came of this.

“I embarrass you, Rogal?” Perturabo said, sliding mechanical fingers into his body suit carefully to push it down further.

“You are making sexual implications, Perty, and this concerns me!”

The room was silent a moment, neither of them moving, but eye contact made. It was hard to discern if they were glaring or smoldering at each other, even to them, but the gaze could not be broken.

“Perty...?” Perturabo stated carefully, allowing himself to question. He wanted to break the gaze, but those dark eyes looking back at him refused to let go.

“It is…a pet name, yes,” Dorn replied.

“Ohh, you see me as your pet, but don’t want to see my penis. Does that make the Imperial Fist Primarch a masochist?” He meant for there to be more taunting, but his voice hinted at actual curiosity. He felt the fibers drop from his waist, landing in a soft thud on the floor. He stepped forward out of the pile of clothing and stood just two inches from Dorn’s desk. Their eyes were still locked.

“I’m…something of a masochist, yes, because sometimes the only way to learn is through pain,” Dorn replied. Their breathing was starting to sync, their Primarch ears noting each other’s heartsbeats. Something was happening between them that mechanically would be labeled as Efficient Production. They were becoming the same machine. And though both had the power to stop it, neither even made an effort.

“Then let me teach you a new lesson…one that requires just as much discipline. But it can hurt or please depending on how you take it,” Perturabo said, voice low, but not aggressive. He leaned forward over the desk and pressed his lips on Dorn’s. They pressed back, shivering, then opened slightly and Dorn pushed his tongue into Perturabo’s mouth. Not wanting to displease his fellow machine part, Perturabo kissed back and clutched Dorn’s short hair in his left hand to pull him closer. Dorn groaned and stood slowly, climbing onto the desk so they could be closer still.

Perturabo’s hands slowly moved down Dorn’s body, carefully removing his golden armor and setting it aside while keeping their mouths attached. He would never admit to anyone this was happening, and for all his disgust of Dorn’s policies, knew his brother wouldn’t admit it to anyone either. It would be a memory that they were equal for a time, and ultimately fuel their rivalry more.

Each clang of the armor on the desk made their hearts beat harder, their skin pressing together and their pores beginning to sweat. It was shameful, but it was okay because no one would know. And Perturabo was losing patience as he began tugging off Dorn’s bodysuit, pulling back briefly to use a finger to just rip it down. Dorn gasped and tried to stop him, mumbling something about it being hard to get sized, but Perturabo’s tongue quickly shut him up as he licked down his brother’s collarbone. His finger tore the rest of the suit open, hands pushing inside so he could pin Dorn.

_This is tolerable because I am about to fuck Rogal Dorn unconscious over his own damned Praetorian desk, and I will make him scream my name so the damned walls he built rattle and echo who is superior,_ Perturabo told himself. He allowed himself to acknowledge that he was enjoying every second of it, but refused to accept that he might actually feel attracted to Dorn. He pulled his right hand off Dorn’s chest in order to press a button just under his naval. There was a soft whir, his penis erect, and he looked at Dorn one more time before traveling down his body.

Dorn wasn’t protesting. His body trembled underneath his brother’s touch, his back arching the lower Perturabo’s tongue went. There wasn’t any point in fighting it and they both knew that. Dorn clasped a hand on Perturabo’s head, careless of the wires but doing no damage. Perturabo bit into Dorn’s abdomen to let him know that not only was he in charge, but he was not to be damaged in this strange display of affection. Dorn just gasped, the pain forcing his own member hard and the blood dripping down his stomach reminding him of his place.

Perturabo took his time, noting where he touched or licked that caused the most reaction. Dorn was a quivering mess by the time his finger reached his opening. Perturabo knew every button to push, every sensation to drag out or stop suddenly. Dorn was as much a machine right now as anything either of them built. The only task left was to make him a properly oiled machine.

“How innocent are you, Rogal,” Perturabo rumbled as his finger began prying his brother’s anus. Dorn quickly clenched and tried to push Perturabo away but found himself held down by the throat.

“Ahhh, a virgin, then,” Perturabo stated as though he were assessing the flaws in a project. “If you please me enough, perhaps I’ll be gentle.”

Dorn’s eyes were wide, the remains of his ego making a final stand. But Perturabo was the master of siege warfare, specialized in tearing walls down. Dorn would give in, and Perturabo would be there to loot whatever hid behind his fortress.

“Are you telling me to—”

“I am telling you that if you don’t suck my cock until I tell you to stop, I am going to shove it in your tight ass completely raw with rough texture activated. If that’s what you want, Dorn, by all means keep protesting.”

There was only a glare as Dorn slowly pushed against his brother to sit up. Perturabo grabbed the back of Dorn’s neck and shoved him down on his knees, then pushed his length to Dorn’s lips. Dorn could only back up so far, the desk that he had been awarded upon becoming Praetorian suddenly a curse. After a moment of hesitation, he opened his mouth again and let Perturabo slide in. He gagged after just one thrust, giving his brother more reason to smirk.

“If you don’t want me to push it in and out, Dorn, why not do it yourself. Also, you have hands, do you not? Fists of legend? Clasp one of those on the shaft and massage. I can feel what you’re doing.”

Dorn obeyed, grumbling as he began working Perturabo’s shaft. It felt completely natural and he took he deeper in his mouth, brushing his teeth against it. Perturabo groaned—the nerve wirings were certainly effective—and pushed himself a half-step forward, making Dorn gag again. This time Dorn just kept going, hoping he could keep the pace as he felt his own member began to drip. His saliva was drizzling down Perturabo’s base, plopping onto his still-natural ball-sack as Dorn continued pushing his own limits to take it deeper.

“That’s…good,” Perturabo stated quietly as he braced himself over Dorn, hands on the desk. Looking at the damned thing was going to be hell for both of them from now on, both too proud to ever admit why, and too proud to have it removed.

“Enough,” Perturabo finally mumbled, pulling his shaft free and relishing the pop as Dorn’s slobbery lips released. “Up, lean over it. I’ll be nice this once.”

“You’re not going to…”

“No, I’m not. And I can go back to being mean, or you can listen to someone other than your own damned pride,” Perturabo hissed.

“You should take your own lessons,” Dorn spat, standing up, but too slow for his brother’s tastes. Perturabo grabbed him roughly, shoving their lips together briefly before spinning him around and shoving him down on the desk. It creaked angrily in protest, but Perturabo didn’t care. Dorn grunted, then gasped when Perturabo’s fingers went inside. They pulled apart, a strange, warm liquid flowing into the metal tips as they began pulsing. It heated rapidly, almost to the point of painful, then began to cool. It repeated several times until Dorn was panting and pressing against Perturabo’s hand.

“Need something?” Perturabo hummed as he continued with his fingers, adding a third, then fourth. An evil thought occurred to him as Dorn kept physically begging for more.

“In honor of this somewhat spontaneous unity, Rogal, I present you a slogan to remember every time you look at me,” Perturabo said. His voice then dropped to a whisper as he leaned over his brother’s ear. “Fists within, fists without.”

Dorn’s eyes went wide as Perturabo’s entire hand went inside. It pushed deep, and it vibrated, and it twisted just a little until Dorn felt himself explode all over the front of the desk. Perturabo pulled his fist out carefully before positioning himself behind his brother and shoving his full length in. Dorn was stretched enough from his hand that a foot-long shaft with vibrating wires and other attachments wouldn’t be too much. He didn’t feel it necessary to warn his brother that his cock would expand and thrust deeper if clenched, either, as the demonstration would soon be more informative than any words.

“P-P-PertuRABO!” Dorn screamed as he felt his depths penetrated even further. His cock had less than a second to relax and was at full attention as he barely held himself standing. Perturabo pulled him up so that his member would go deeper, biting into the back of Dorn’s neck as the Primarch trembled in ecstasy. His left hand traveled down over the bite marks on Dorn’s stomach, teasing the healing wound there before clasping tight Dorn’s tip.

“You can release again once I get a little more attention for myself, brother,” Perturabo whispered between bites down Dorn’s back. The thrusting sped up, deeper and stronger. Dorn whimpered and muttered things incoherently as Perturabo grew close to climax. He paused, waiting for Dorn to press against him again before increasing speed and strength once more. He counted the thrusts and let out a long breath as the seventh one erupted inside his nearly unconscious sibling. Dorn’s fists were tightly clasped and sweat poured down his body as he slumped forward.

“Truly a man of the Fists,” Perturabo taunted as he let go of Dorn’s swollen tip. He shoved his brother’s face onto the desk and thrusted four times as hard as he could, chuckling when Dorn came again all over the floor. He then pulled out and back, slapped Dorn on the back, and began collecting his armor.

“Do vox me when you have my materials, and Rogal dear…be careful what you wish for.”

Rogal Dorn could not respond, barely able to breathe and feeling consciousness slip from him as he heard heavy footsteps leaving the room. The door remained open, and his pride lay exposed as he fell beside the desk.

“I…hate…you…Perty,” he growled, passing out in a puddle of his own fluids.


End file.
